


Prove It

by light_source



Series: High Heat [49]
Category: Baseball RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 20:50:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/light_source/pseuds/light_source
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>- This is the mother of all bad ideas, Tim whispers, his mouth still very near Buster’s and one green eye so close that Posey can feel the edge of Tim’s cheekbone against his face. - You in?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prove It

Tim pads barefoot down the hall into the same darkness that swallowed the bulldog.

Buster stands there wavering between the hallway and the door. But he finds he can’t not walk into the dark, towards the sliver of light at the end from the cracked-open bathroom door, the sound of water running.

When he gets there his heart’s thumping like he’s just run a sprint. If he stops here in the dark, he’ll have to think.

Buster jams his shoulder edgewise between the handle and the jamb, popping the door open like you’d cut in on a girl on the dance floor, polite but definite.

Tim’s brushing his teeth, his head tipped back. In the mirror, their eyes meet. As Tim’s jaw drops, his elbow stops in mid-motion. He’s in his underwear, stripped to the waist, and there’s a towel folded over his left shoulder. His eyes flicker down and then he leans forward and spits a mouthful of toothpaste into the sink, cups his hand around the stream of water and drinks from it as it runs over his fingers.

Buster can’t stop staring at both of them in the mirror. The Buster he sees there is a stranger to him, like how he looks in pictures, himself but not himself.

In front of him, Lincecum, still bent over, wrenches off the water. As he straightens up, Buster finds himself holding his breath, watching the way the muscles in Tim’s back flex, the way his long dark hair blanks out the tattoo at the top of his spine.

As Tim’s wiping his face with the corner of the towel, their eyes lock again in the mirror. Buster see his own half-open mouth, the spots of pink in his cheeks, his wide-open eyes, and for a second it’s all he can do not to wheel around and get himself out of there.

Without breaking the eye contact in the mirror Lincecum whips the towel back over his shoulder and settles both hands on the counter, arms braced and shoulders wide. His mouth opens a little as though he’s about to speak, but then it snaps shut. Lincecum’s chin juts and his eyes narrow as his face hardens into that expression Buster knows from the mound: _I’ma get this fucker out._

Buster bends his own arm flat against the wall behind him and slaps off the lights.

The darkness freezes him for a second; he can feel his pupils cranking open, his eyes widening and cooling around the edges. For a long time, there’s only the plink of water from the sink faucet. Now that the mirror’s vanished, Buster realizes that he can feel the places where his skin meets the air around him - his throat, where his heart’s pounding; the tips of his ears; the warm and sweaty insides of his elbows. He’s close enough to hear Tim’s close and measured breath.

Everything around him seems to have disappeared in the utter dark, so when he lifts his right hand towards where he knows Tim must be, he’s amazed when it finds something warm and breathing and real, skin and the muscle underneath it and a ripple or two of bone. He feels Tim’s chest move, his lungs whistle a little as he breathes.

 _Just like mine_ \- why does this surprise him? - _like mine._ He eases himself forward till his cock, hard and heavy, rustles up against the crisp cotton of Tim’s boxers. When he thrusts his hips softly into the warm crease of the pitcher’s ass he’s gratified and aroused by the sound that rumbles out of Lincecum’s throat. Slowly, his fingers spread and wondering, Buster strokes his hands upward from the small of Lincecum’s back to his smooth, knotty shoulders.

Beneath his hands, Tim straightens up slowly and twists around till Buster can feel Tim’s breath on his cheek, smell the cool familiar scent of Colgate and the bristle of Ivory soap. Then suddenly, the pitcher’s shoulder ducks back, his arm snakes under Buster’s in the dark. When the lights flash back on, the bathroom’s as bleak and overbright as a grocery-store aisle at midnight.

Pitcher and catcher are nose to nose, Lincecum’s eyes narrowed and his eyebrows riding low.

 _-_ No lights no deal, Tim hisses softly, _\- Posey._

The way he spits it out makes Buster’s name sound like a swear word. His eyes are half-shut like they are when he’s circling the mound after retiring a batter, when he’s gone somewhere inside himself.

A trickle of sweat slides into the groove of Buster’s collarbone, and another from his spine to the small of his back. His mouth half-open, Buster leans forward for a kiss, but Tim turns his head away, so Buster’s mouth settles hot and hard on the side of his neck, where Tim’s skin still tastes like a long day outside. As his tongue finds the pitcher’s racing pulse and tracks up the hollow hard groove to the nameless join of jaw and ear and throat, he feels Tim writhe and press against him, hips matching themselves up against Buster’s in a way that goes straight to Buster’s dick. His cock’s pressing hot and hard sideways in his jeans as he bucks his hips slowly into the hard-on that’s tenting the flimsy fabric of Tim’s boxers.

The pitcher lets his head fall back, mouth open and eyes closed, and the groan that rumbles up from his chest to his throat crackles through Buster like a shout. As he wraps one hand around Tim’s bare waist and slides the other one up his chest, feeling the shock of the pitcher’s hard nipple and the fringe of soft hair under his arm, Buster closes his eyes and lifts his chin up to find Tim’s mouth right there right on his.

His thighs are shaking like they do when he pulls up after a wind-sprint, but it doesn’t matter, his brain’s so blanked with amazement at what Tim’s tongue is doing to his, giving as good as it gets, strange in the way it exacts and taunts and dares him.

He feels Tim’s pitching hand snatch the shirttails out of his jeans, slide into his underwear, seize his ass cheek and knead it, fingertips playing the edge of the catcher’s asshole. The pitcher’s hand is warm and wiry and his skin’s rough from the dry Arizona air, and now it’s Buster who can’t help groaning a little, it feels so good.

And then, abruptly, Tim tears his mouth away, leans back like he’s starting his windup and shoves the catcher back so forcefully that Buster’s shoulder bungs a towel rack right out of its screws, peeling off a dusty chunk of drywall. The clatter when it hits the floor feels like a slap in the face.

\- This what you do, Posey, when you got nothing better? Or’d somebody put you up to it, one of those southern-boy things?   _Get the fuck out of here._

Tim’s mouth is bruised-looking and wet and there’s spit at the corner. His bottom teeth are a sharp white line.

As he shoves Buster out of the way, he swipes off the bathroom lights. The catcher’s left standing there in the dark. Down the hall, the bedroom door bangs shut.

Later, though he’s not sure why, Buster’s grateful for that.

//

For Tim it’d started in high school.

The first time it happened was when Ryan Detwiler backed him into a stall in the C-wing bathroom and shoved his tongue down Tim’s throat. It’d taken him by surprise; Tim choked and gagged and bit back till he managed to get a knee up and a fist to the soft underside of Detwiler’s jaw.

A few minutes later, when Tim pushed past him, the big halfback was doubled over and bloody-mouthed, slumped above the black seat of the toilet.

Being called _faggot_ and _queer_ and _pussy,_ getting beaten up out by the tennis courts - none of those things had been half as bad as the predatory curiosity of straight guys. The same guys who’d call him names would grab his ass in the shower when they thought no one was looking, or jam their crotches in his face, like that time he’d been sitting alone on the bleachers finishing up his calculus homework.

He’d learned a few things. That it probably wasn’t a good idea to get a ride home with a teammate. To stay out of the end of the hall after the 8:50 bell. To avoid the shortcut from the practice diamond to the locker room, the one that goes between the back of the pavilion and the pool, where the fence has that green netting you can’t see through.

He’d started dating Allison as much to get them off his back as anything else. Once he’d had a girlfriend, the steady stream of taunts and shoves and grabs dwindled into a trickle, but it was still there. He remembers the night senior year when a bunch of them been sitting around a firepit on the beach doing iPod karaoke and passing around a fatty. As he’d taken a hit, one of Brandon’s so-called friends, one of those assholes from Debate, stood up and grabbed his crotch and shouted _hey Lincecum, smoke this!_

Tim remembers his face flaming in the dark, the wet cold wind off the sound raking his back while he waited for the laughter to subside. What got him through it was the expression on Brandon’s face, the way their eyes matched up in the firelight for just an instant before they had to look away.

Buster reminds him intensely of these guys, the kind of guy who’s got a blonde on his arm and rockettube bookmarked on his computer. He’s the whitest white guy Tim’s ever met, no earrings or tats or jewelry or even aftershave. And even though he’s got the most bodacious ass in the clubhouse, he hides it in baggy Dockers and dad jeans.

The fact that Tim’s noticed Buster’s ass is where the problem begins.

//

When Jack Murphy Stadium was being built in San Diego, Tony Gwynn talked the Padres into building him a custom batting cage, lit at precisely the number of candle-feet that a pinch-hitter could expect to see during a night game. Gwynn liked to hit and hit and hit - as many as two hundred hacks in a single practice session - and he wanted it to feel as real as possible. Partly to make a point about Gwynn’s work ethic and partly because they hated being outdone by their peers, all the GMs made sure these new batting cages were installed at every new-old ballpark that was built in the next decade. Now all the new spring training camps have them too. The ‘Tony’ is like a regular batting cage on steroids, with a mound and a plate at regulation distance and an Iron Mike pitching machine at the ready.

After practice, as they’re walking back through the maze of buildings that leads from the practice field to the clubhouse, Tim’s straggling a little behind, toweling his forehead. It’s hot and they’ve been running wind-sprints, which he hates, and he’s got a sick suspicion that Gary, the new trainer, has a plan to run him till he pukes.

Gary’s dead last behind him, flicking his own towel at Lincecum’s ass, singing _you can’t always get what you wa-ant_ in a scratchy falsetto, when Tim sees Buster hold up in front of him and wait for him to catch up. Looking back over his shoulder, Buster raises his eyebrows at Tim and scowls at Gary, narrowing his eyes and tilting his head like a preacher till Gary skips past both of them, singing _what what what - you need._  
  
\- Hey, says Buster when Tim catches up. He’s so solemn that Tim expects him to salute.

It’s the first word either has said to the other since Tim sent Buster packing a couple of nights ago.

\- Can you do me a favor? Buster’s eyebrows quirk up like a puppy’s. - I need some BP, and not the machine. I was thinking the Tony.

\- I threw to Whitey already, says Tim. - This morning.

\- Yeah, I know, says Buster, - I don’t need a full session, maybe thirty, thirty-five?

The rest of the sweaty yacking hooting dogpack has shuffled on down the hall towards the clubhouse. He and Tim are facing each other now in the fluorescent light of the corridor. The soapy smell of the team’s industrial laundry is steaming up out of the grate in the floor between them.

Tim crosses his arms, tucks his pitching hand under one elbow. - What’s in it for me? he says.

\- I’ll call ‘em, says Buster - I think you been tipping. Stanton - he knew you on the cutter, those two at-bats.

\- Fuck that shit, says Tim drily. - You got nothing, Posey. Let’s do it for stakes.

\- Like what?

\- If I get more swinging strikes than you get hits, you have to buy me dinner. And I get to pick the place.

\- And if I get more hits? More calls? says Buster.

\- You still have to buy me dinner, says Tim, grinning, - cause fuck, man, it’s _my_ arm’s at stake. You can hit till the cows come home and it ain’t nothin’ to you, _Gerald._

Tim wonders why he’s suddenly started talking like a hayseed.

And suddenly this smile breaks out on Buster’s face, a smile Tim can’t remember having seen before. His whole face is pinked up awkwardly like a girl’s. Tim turns his eyes away as they move off down the corridor, but as he checks out Buster from the edge of his eyesight, something inside him loosens a little: the hard muscle he’d made to protect himself.

//

Unless he’s pitching from the stretch, Tim gets his grip holding the ball behind his right ass cheek, a strategy designed to make it hard for batters to tell what he’s planning to throw. Turned sideways like that, perpendicular to the plate, he disappears into a sliver of himself. Then when he throws, he seems to rematerialize all at once, like a coyote leaping out of the tall grass. Most batters can’t get much of a tell till the ball’s on them or past them or dying in the dirt.

He holds up six fingers, four and two, and then Buster takes a few practice pitches in his catcher’s gear, squared up behind the plate, shifting his weight sideways between his knees. Tim gives him one low and inside, one middle up, a back-door slider, and a splitter.

He likes how Buster has to lean and twist and stretch to snag what he’s thrown. It’s familiar but it’s not. Usually, between them, a pitch is a pact. The Buster he’s seeing now is someone whose head he aims to mess with.

As Buster’s unbuckling and peeling off his catching gear and velcro-ing on his batting gloves, Tim uses his left toe to scumble up the first-base side of the rubber, digging himself a trench that’ll anchor his back foot and keep him from tumbling off the mound.

Behind the Tony’s plate, where the catcher would ordinarily squat, there’s a fireplace-sized maw like the pit of a bowling alley, fringed with heavy rubber strips and backed with a return that shoots the ball back underground to the rack behind the pitcher’s mound. Now that Buster’s up and readying himself to bat, Tim sends a practice pitch whistling into it, starts a little at the thud and rattle of the return. He reaches into the bucket at his feet for another ball and scuffs it up. And then Buster’s ready there at the plate, his weight sunk onto his back leg and his front leg poised like a snake that’s ready to strike.

\- Heater, high and inside, shouts Posey and steps back as the pitch blows by his knuckles.

Tim smiles. - You gotta call ‘em before they get there, he says back.

The next pitch seems maddeningly to rise as it approaches the plate. Buster’s bat slams it with a crack and Tim has to duck to let the ball whiz over his right shoulder.

\- Gapper, Buster hollers triumphantly, - double.

\- In your dreams, motherfucker, Tim yells back. He’s already checking the seams on the fresh ball, thinking about his next pitch.

Fifteen pitches later, they’re dead even, hits and swinging strikes.

Tim’s got both hands on the ball behind his ass, curling his thumb and forefinger into a C, looking down at the mound and getting ready to come set when he hears Buster yell.

\- Change!

He stops, mid-motion - in a game it’d be called a balk.

Buster’s grinning madly. - You’re tipping, he says.

Tim looks at him, unbelieving.

\- Your upper lip. You kinda curl it up on one side when you’re getting ready to throw the change. That’s how Stanton knew, their scouting’s on it.

A few pitches later, Tim’s figured out how to lift just that one side of his lip, his eyes narrowed to match the snarl. Buster’s leaning back, nearly on his heels waiting for the changeup to peter out in front of him, when a high tight fastball clips him in the front of the throat.

When Tim straightens up from picking up his next ball, Buster’s right there in his face. It’s strange: usually Buster’s in his catcher’s gear, and there’s something unsettling about the fact that he’s still got the bat in his hand.

\- You tryina hurt me? Posey half-shouts. His throat keeps making little hammer-tap choking noises like he’s swallowed gravel and he’s trying to chuck it back up.

\- I didn’t throw at you, if that’s what you mean, says Tim. - You got in the way.

Buster’s standing there, the veins standing out on the sides of his neck. The back of his neck’s glossy with sweat, and there’s circles under the pits of his jersey. He rips off his batting helmet and hurls it at the ground. His wet hair’s plastered down onto his temples and his forehead.

\- You little motherfucker, Posey begins, his voice lower than usual. Abruptly he stops speaking and coughs a little, pounding one open hand against his collarbone. There’s a pink stripe over his Adam’s apple where the pitch clipped him.

\- ‘S’a matter, Posey? That last one take your breath away?

Buster’s caught his lip between his teeth; he looks at Tim through narrowed eyes and shakes his head in disgust, the way Tim’s seen nuns and teachers and his Mom do, like they hate something you’ve done but don’t want to say why because they know you’d just talk back.

The flash of Buster’s fist, the blast of pain that shatters against his cheekbone just below his left eye and knocks him off his feet and onto his ass, does not take Tim entirely by surprise.

The weird thing is that, when he finds himself lying there, his head spinning and his back and arms scraping raw from the nailish blades of the plastic turf beneath him, he sees Posey’s horrified face, that he’s rubbing his knuckles, and suddenly the laughter gusts up inside him, blows out his nose and his mouth and practically his ears. Then Buster’s laughing too, red-faced and wrinkly as a finger that's been soaking in hot water, and it’s all Tim can do to prop himself on his elbows and try to suck some air back into his lungs.

Eventually the hand that hit Tim reaches out and pulls him back up to his feet.  
  
//

What Buster likes about the Olive Garden is that it’s always the same. There's always a bunch of people waiting - squirming kids on the iron benches, wedged between Aunt Irma’s walker and Mom’s purse, a teenage couple wearing shoes that hurt - and he can order the Tour of Italy whether he’s in Nashville or Nagodoches. It’s just real-restaurant enough that when he orders his glass of Roscato, the waiter always says  _very good choice, sir_ but it’s still sweet enough not to make him squint.

How they wound up here, instead of at some dive bar chosen by Tim, is a little surprising. When Tim came back from the shower he was quiet, deliberate, almost as though he was prepping for a start. And then as he was pulling his henley over his head, dragging his hair with it, he’d said low and clear - Kay, dude, you get to pick dinner. I shouldna thrown that inside.

Buster hates fake protests; he makes a point of always taking people at their word. So as he and Tim thread their way out of the players’ parking lot - it’s so early in the season that all the autograph-hunters have decamped - he just jerks his head diagonally and Tim sighs, showing that he knows. If you cut through the hospital parking lot, the Olive Garden’s a five-minute walk from the ballpark.

Buster’s hungry, walking fast, so they make it in three. As the hostess blasts them with an excessively enthusiastic rendition of _welcome to the Olive Garden_ , Buster pretends not to hear Tim mumbling under his breath behind him, something that sounds like _geezers_ or maybe it’s _Jesus, Posey, the fuckin chairs got wheels._

Buster’s secretly pleased at the way Tim’s lip curls up as the waiter takes their drinks order and then he glances around, eyes narrowed, at the other patrons. Lincecum fingers the laminated tent-card advertising girl-drinks and leans forward: - _I feel like I’m on a date or something,_ he spits. He glares so straight at Buster out from underneath his eyebrows that the catcher shrinks back in spite of himself.

It just sits there between them - this silence that sucks up the bang, clatter and buzz of the busy restaurant - till the waiter reappears with the tray of salad and bread sticks, brandishing a peppermill the size of a bat. By then Tim’s left hand has snaked up to the wooden trellis above the banquette and he’s tugging on the plastic grapevine that’s twined along the wall. He pushes his bowl to the side, ignoring the salad, while Buster crunches away, croutons and banana peppers and both giant black olives. Then, slowly enough to get Buster’s attention, Tim opens his closed fist on the tablecloth to reveal seven plastic grapes racked up in a triangle. Lincecum’s eyes flicker up. He’s smiling.

Posey freezes with his fork halfway to his mouth. He feels his lips settle into a straight line.

\- You gonna eat, says Buster quietly, - or you just gonna drive me nuts?

Eyeing Buster’s glass of Roscato, both eyebrows raised, Tim takes a long swig of his Tecate and lifts the empty bottle towards the waiter for another. Buster finds himself watching how Tim’s throat works, the way his mouth is wet when he finally puts down the glass.

\- I’m waiting for the actual food, says Tim. - Watching you slam vegetables is killing my appetite.

He’s got his spoon fulcrumed on the edge of the table, the bowl loaded up with a plastic grape, getting ready to launch.

\- Just stop it, Posey hisses, but too late; Tim’s already fired, sending the grape whizzing over Buster’s shoulder. Two tables over there’s a squawk and grunt and a middle-school-aged kid’s half-standing there, his mother’s voice rising thready and unstable over the bustle of the room _\- Tyler, I told you that already, quit -_

Buster doesn’t do it consciously - when he sees Tim launch the next one, his hand just rises up the way it’d do when he’s catching and snaps closed on the flying grape, He turns back towards Tim and places the grape back between them, precisely in the midpoint of the square table. Tim’s looking at him, his chin tipped sideways, eyes wide open.

\- Nice snag, Posey. Jesus, you’ve got soft hands. _Everybody_ says so.

Buster pushes back from the table and crosses his arms, feeling his face settle into a mask of slits. His tongue’s got time to make a full rotation around the inside of his cheek while he watches a smile of triumph steal over Lincecum’s face.

\- Why you always gotta be such an asshole, Timmy?

\- You bring it out in me, says Lincecum calmly, - I’m a perfect gentleman around everybody else.

Buster knows better than to say anything. Instead, he picks up his fork and starts poking towards the bottom of his salad, chasing a tomato wedge. The salad has only made him hungrier.

\- Did it ever occur to you, Posey, Tim continues, - that that’s why you like me?

\- No, says Buster slowly, - No, I don’t believe so.

\- Because I’m an asshole?  Lincecum pauses. - A faggot?

Just as Buster’s fixing to answer, their waiter appears, balancing a tray with their entrees. When the waiter asks Tim if he’d like freshly grated parmesan on his New York strip, the pitcher just looks at him in amazement and then back at Buster.

After he’s decamped, there’s a long pause while Tim cuts up the first few pieces of steak and douses them with salt and pepper.

\- I know it must be hard, being Captain America, Lincecum continues, - you gotta get sick of it sometimes. Anybody would. Being perfect.

\- You oughta know, Posey counters evenly, refusing to rise to the bait. - You been the franchise since you came up. It’s your face out there all over the front of the building.

Buster coils his fettuccine carefully around his fork. He hates it when people eat pasta sloppily, sucking up the strands that didn’t fit. It’s so good, that first bite, the smooth saltiness of cream and cheese and the way the pasta melts in his mouth, that his mind goes fuzzy with the pure pleasure of eating.

But as he’s watching Tim chew, the pitcher’s elbow on the table, the fingers of his loose hand curled up, Buster feels it: the slide of fabric against his khakis under the table, Tim’s knee pressing warm against the inside of his own.

For a second Buster freezes, wanting more than anything to tuck his leg back under his chair, chalk it up to accident. But something stops him. Lincecum’s put his fork down. His elbow’s on the table, his pitching hand cradling the side of his jaw, his forefinger with its long nail pointing straight up past his temple. The L-shape Tim’s hand makes points up the long chin and jutting jaw that Buster recognizes as his purpose-pitch face.

The raised seam of Tim’s jeans, snaking against the inside of Posey’s thigh, sends a jolt of heat straight up into Buster’s gut.

\- Hey, Buster, says Tim softly, - I known a lot of guys like you.

\- What makes you -

\- Flag-waving fag-hating hometown heroes, Tim interrupts wearily. - Heart and soul of baseball.

\- You got me wrong, says Buster. - I happen to be very open-minded about homosexuality.

\- Yeah? says Tim. He sucks his upper lip between his teeth, considering, and then his eyes flash up. - _So prove it._

Buster feels the blush sliding up from his neck into his cheeks and his temples and the tips of his ears. He must not, he cannot, he will not blink.

//

What’s most surreal about their drive home is when the two of them pull up even at a stoplight three blocks from the condominium complex, Tim in his grey Mercedes and Buster in his ‘98 Camry. They’re first at the red, so they sit through five changes of lights, watching all the other cars proceed in turn. Buster knows better than to turn his head. But from the corner of his vision he can see Tim, straight-arming the wheel, the bass of whatever he’s listening to jackhammering the pavement, and Buster feels his own breath ringing in his ears. The seatbelt, tight across his hipbones and his hard-on, is like the harness of a parachute, one last perfect emblem of restraint.

//

When he pulls in, Tim’s car’s already there, parked in his dedicated space a few cars down, and Buster wonders for a minute if he’s just dreamed the last few hours. He remembers to snag the Walgreens bag off the front seat - he’d picked up a prescription on the way to the park that morning - and as he unlocks the front door, he can’t figure out if he’s relieved or disappointed that Lincecum has disappeared. But in the foyer he stops short, keys still in his fist. He can’t get it out of his head, what Tim said last: _prove it._

//

Down the hall, Tim’s front door is a blanker version of his own, identical down to the peephole. Buster’s standing in front of it like an idiot, trying to figure out whether he should knock or ring the doorbell, when suddenly it swings open. Synth drums and a snarl of shouting that sounds like _fucka fucka mothafucka_ spills out of the room and into the hallway; Buster pushes the door shut behind him, self-conscious. There’s only one light on, a standing lamp in the far corner, and Tim’s wearing sweatpants and a long-sleeved jersey, his face blank and a little tired. He jerks his head and turns towards the kitchen.

It’s the mirror image of his own kitchen, but barer, not even a toaster or a microwave on the counter. Tim slams the fridge door, glass bottles clinking, and uses the underedge of the counter to pop the caps off two Coronas. He hands one to Buster, raises his solemnly and tips it back for a long drink. Buster just stands there, as ill-at-ease as a guy who’s shown up half an hour before the party's supposed to start.

Tim uses the back of his hand to wipe the foam from the corner of his mouth. His hands, Posey noticed, are square and workmanlike, not the delicate surgeon’s hands he expects pitchers to have.

\- There’s rules for this, Posey, Lincecum shouts over the blast and thump of the music, - just like in baseball.

\- Rules for what? Buster hollers back.

Tim picks up a remote from the granite countertop and clicks it; the music siphons down to a hum.

\- For you being here. For doing what we’re doing.

When Buster says nothing, he continues.

\- You’re about the most married guy west of the Mississippi, Posey - Tim grabs Buster’s left hand and holds it up between them, the wedding ring winking in the faint light - and I’m single and all-but-out and I been hit on by pretty much every bi-curious guy in baseball. What that means is I don’t have a thing for straight guys.   _I don't fool around._

\- And while you’re at it, says Buster sarcastically, - go ahead and say the rest of it, like you don’t believe Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone, and you wanna outlaw astroturf and the DH -

\- While we’re on _Bull Durham_ , remember that scene where Nuke’s little blonde girlfriend says she was lured, and Annie tells her she has to take responsibility?

Buster takes a pull on his Corona.

\- What I’m saying, says Lincecum, - is that you don’t get to blame this on me. Ever. And if you’re not OK with that, get the fuck out of here now.

As Lincecum’s been talking, Buster’s felt as though they were sinking fast through water, the words garbled and blurry, broken into waves. He’s become achingly aware of the few feet between them, the way Tim’s got one hand on the countertop and the way his bare feet are pale and angular against the dark tiled floor.

The slow drift of water, sunlight sifting through it to the blue bottom, is what it feels like as Buster slowly threads his fingers through Tim’s long dark hair, his thumbs cupping the soft lobes of his ears, as he parts Tim’s lips with his and feels the pitcher breathe back into his mouth, both of them tagged with the yeast-and-metal taste of lager. Tim’s face is soft and hairless as a girl’s, but the way his tongue meets Buster’s is all boy, stubborn and unyielding. Buster feels the knot of rage and desire in the hard muscles of his hips and belly as Tim settles himself back against the countertop, their legs spread against each other’s, Buster’s hand down the front of Tim’s sweatpants, stroking.

When Tim pushes him away Buster’s open-eyed, stunned. He can’t tell whether Tim wants to kiss him or kill him; somehow it’s that combination that makes him crazy. The pitcher’s breathing hard, his mouth and chin wet, the greyish bruise around his eye turning it to a black socket in the darkness. Strands of hair are stuck to his sweaty neck and the waistband of his sweatpants is halfway down his hips, held up in front only by his raging hard-on.

\- I been dreaming about you, says Buster all at once. He can hardly breathe, now he's said it.

Tim just looks at him, his eyes guarded. After awhile he brings his hand up, smoothing the heel of it against Buster’s jaw in the rough place where his beard begins to grow. He tips his chin up and covers Buster’s mouth with his, his tongue and breath warm and pressing. Tim slides one warm hand up under Buster’s shirt and runs it up the catcher’s chest, his nails and fingertips so rough they make Buster’s skin gooseflesh and he recoils a little in surprise.

\- This is the mother of all bad ideas, Tim whispers, his mouth still very near Buster’s and one green eye so close that Posey can feel the edge of Tim’s cheekbone against his face. - You in?

\- I take full responsibility for my actions, says Buster in his best Boy Scout voice, and it’s not his fault that Tim is laughing as Buster snatches his hand and drags him off down the hall to where he can lay Tim back against the heaped-up pillows of the unmade bed.

//

Lincecum doesn’t trust Posey. Never has, and probably never will. But that night was like the Christmas cease-fire that happened back in World War I, when the soldiers on the two sides decided they could stop fighting for just one night, and they ate together and played soccer and sang carols before the dawn broke and they had to go back to the serious business of killing each other.

That story about the Germans and the Allies stuck in Tim’s head, even back in high school, because it seemed so like the way baseball works: pitched battles punctuated by moments of eerie calm and disarming friendliness. And then, the next day, back to the fight over the rubber match or the division series or whatever else was coming up that day, that week.

They’d laid down slowly on Tim’s bed together, Buster all twisted up funny in the sheets and making exasperated noises. Slowly and deliberately, they’d gone about the business of truce.

It wasn’t easy. Feeling Buster’s hands on him, after Zito’s practiced and elegant touch, made Tim wonder if he’d stumbled into something bottomless. A bonfire of memories was set on fire by Posey’s hands - the way his head had fit perfectly into the groove of Barry’s shoulder, the soft brush of hair on Barry’s chest, the way Barry would run his wet mouth along the sharp ridges of Tim’s bones, hip and shoulder and the inside of his wrist.

They’d been showering together since last May, so Posey’s body was nothing new to him. He knew about the curve of Buster’s shoulders and the hollows in the cheeks of his ass and the way his skin flushed red when he was hot. But Posey in the grip of desire was something to see. That serious mouth that was always shut tight in a prissy little line of judgment was wet and soft and open when Tim worked over his cock and his balls and the sweet insides of his thighs.

Out of uniform, away from the park, the big catcher became something else, someone else, entirely. He’d used everything, those big soft hands and lips and tongue and teeth, to trace a path down Tim’s body, sucking and biting his nipples and the grooves below his hipbones and even the sensitive insides of Tim’s arms until the pitcher was scratching and protesting and arching his back. Buster had grunted and sat up, looking flustered as though he’d forgotten something. Gently he’d flipped Tim over onto his stomach, sliding his hand around to fist his cock, and spread his cheeks and eaten him out, that warm tongue as controlling and insistent as Buster ever had been behind the plate, calling the shots.

Later, thinking about it, what drives Tim the most crazy is how Posey seemed to know exactly what he was doing. Tim’d had a fantasy - yes, he’d dreamed about Posey too, though mostly about his ass - that he’d be Posey’s instructor in the arts of inversion. But Buster wasn’t having it. He’d gotten Tim so wet and open that the container of lube they’d fumbled with had hardly been necessary.

But when Tim was about to come, knowing he couldn’t hold out much longer, he turned the tables himself. He dipped one shoulder down and rolled the suprised Posey over onto the bed where he could take charge of the rhythm, the sweet slap of Posey’s balls against his ass. As the flush spread up from Posey’s chest to pink his cheeks and his ears, Tim had kissed him, slowly at first and then harder as he felt Posey’s whole body begin to harden beneath him, shaking, as he came.

 

 

.


End file.
